Still Life
by Fortinbras
Summary: Mark Cohen struggles to figure out who he is, what he wants, and where his place in life is. After a RIDICULOUSLY long hiatus, CHAPTER 12 is here, my friends, and you know you want to read it!
1. That is the question

Still Life

Chapter One

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, or any of the characters contained therein.

Mark walked down the street, camera in hand, filming as he walked. He weaved in and out of the bustling crowds occupying the sidewalks, and narrowly avoided being run over by cars that sped impatiently down the street. Mark didn't even stop filming when he entered the Life Café, because to do that he would have to take his eye away from the eyepiece, and doing that would mean he would have to look at his surroundings. Mark sighed. He didn't want to have to deal with what he saw. It was easier to process it through a camera, to cut out the footage he didn't like, to create a story, create _reason_ behind what he saw. He could manipulate and edit what he filmed. He didn't have to include what he didn't like. Avoidance was a part of his life, he had accepted that. He knew what he was doing, that eventually he would have to come to terms with his life, but for now he was content in ignoring the obvious, and concentrating only on what made him happy.

Reluctantly, he set his camera down on the countertop and ordered a small coffee, more to have something to do with his hands rather than out of a thirst. He sipped it cautiously, wincing as the boiling liquid scalded his tongue. He cradled the cup in his hands, staring at something in the distance. He sat like that for a while, and when he finally lifted the cup to his lips again, all he tasted was bitter cold. He paid his bill and walked out of the restaurant, still holding his coffee. He stood in indecision for a moment, trying to figure out where to go next. Eventually, he gave in to the impulse to return to the loft, despite his thoughts that he had been spending too much time inside. He began walking briskly in the direction of the apartment building, beginning to film again. He filmed anything he could see, people, animals, even landscapes. He was so immersed in his activity that he almost walked past the entrance to the building. He bounded up the stairs to the loft, already editing footage in his head, eager to get to his equipment. He opened the door and called out,

"Roger? Mimi?"

He got no reply, and he smiled. It was easier to edit in an empty loft. The other inhabitants had little patience for the delicate and time-consuming process it took to perfect his work. As he was setting up his materials, he let his mind wander, as it had been prone to do lately. Mark glanced at the camera in front of him, and smiled. He knew his friends worried about him, about his tendency to just ignore anything that hurt him. He knew they thought he was lonely, and needed someone. But, Mark thought to himself, he wasn't really "lonely." Just awfully alone. "Aren't we feeling introspective today." He said to himself, amused. Mark flipped on the radio; he enjoyed listening to music as he worked, preferring the classical station. He groaned as he recognized the tune, Musetta's Waltz, and changed stations, settling for classic rock. He sat down in his chair, and began to assemble his footage into a film.

At some point during his work, he must have dozed off, for he awoke hours later. He yawned and stretched, feeling a crick in his neck. He glanced at the monitor, and saw a single frame repeating. A man was speaking into a mobile phone, and his words were on a continuous loop. "Who are you?" the man asked, speaking in a brisk, business tone, "What are you doing?" Mark straightened up slowly, and watched the scene again, transfixed by it. He felt drawn to the image, like a moth to a flame. He wondered if it was some sort of sign, or just a random act. He stared at it, willing it to tell him something, but all he could see was the same scene, over and over again. Mark felt a deep melancholy come over him, and he settled back in his chair, feeling the beginnings of apathy wash over him. He listened to the repeating words, feeling himself sink deeper and deeper into a brooding silence. He rose and sat down again, unable to tear himself away from the picture, observing minute details and trying to sort through his jumbled thoughts, and figure out why the picture was so captivating. He stayed like that, watching the screen, until a loud beep drew him out of his reverie. A red light was flashing on his camera, indicating low battery. He glanced at the screen again, and abruptly turned off the power. He sat still in his chair for a moment, then stood up and walked away. Lucky for him, his favorite philosopher was in town. He grabbed his coat and headed out to find the one and only Tom Collins, professor, anarchist, and the resident philosopher of Avenue B.

A/N: This is my first RENT fic, so any criticism at all is appreciated. I'm trying to go in a direction with Mark where he's not _angsty_, per se, but rather discontent and confused about his life and where he fits in. Any suggestions/criticism are accepted, and welcomed. Please review!


	2. O what a noble mind is here o'erthrown

Still Life

Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, or any of the characters contained therein.

Mark walked up to the door of Tom Collins' apartment, and rapped softly on the wood, with a strange feeling of anxiety. After a few seconds, Collins came to the door, and opened it, looking surprised to see Mark standing in the hallway.

"Mark…come in. What are you doing here?" Mark jammed his hands in his pockets, trying to find the words to express how he felt. Frustrated at finding none, he did not reply, and instead walked over to Collins' coffee table, which was covered with various science and philosophy books. He picked one up, and read off the cover:

"Theory of Everything? What's that?" Collins eyed him warily, trying to figure out what was wrong with his usually cheerful friend.

"It's a so-far non-existent theory which, if discovered, will unite the four fundamental interactions of nature. Basically, it's a theory that explains everything." Mark was silent for a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice quavered.

"Do you really believe that? That life, the universe, everything can be reduced to a single theory? That math and physics can explain life, that life is just a function of nature?" By now, Collins was seriously concerned for his friend.

"Mark, what's wrong?" He asked, with a note of urgency in his voice. Mark ignored the question, and continued to speak, his voice becoming thick with emotions.

"Do you believe in fate, Collins?" He asked, tearfully. Collins was taken aback by the question.

"What do you mean, Mark?"

"I mean, do you believe everything is pre-determined? Do you believe that we have a course in life mapped out for us at birth? Something we have no control over?" He hesitated, and plunged ahead, recklessly. "Do you believe fate brought you Angel?" Collins was dumbstruck. He could tell by now that Mark was most definitely not okay. He paused for a moment, considering the question.

"I don't know if I believe in 'fate', exactly. I believe that there are certain things that happen to us that _seem_ like fate." He stopped, trying to find the right words. "I believe that Angel was a gift. From God, or Allah, or some unknown force in the heavens. I believe we were meant for each other." Mark looked at him, crestfallen, and he hastily continued. "But I don't know if that alone meant we were destined to find each other, or that we couldn't have gone through life without each other. I am glad I found Angel, even for the short time that she was with us, but I don't believe that our individual actions are meaningless, or that we have no power over our own lives. That's an awfully hard belief to shoulder, Mark."

Mark looked as though he was having an internal struggle, he breathed deeply and managed to force out the words "I know." Collins surveyed his friend. He could see now what he had missed for weeks. The dark circles under Mark's eyes, the sweater hanging loosely off too-thin shoulders, and the unnervingly despairing look in Mark's eyes, magnified by his thick glasses, which were beginning to dwarf his pale and drawn face. Collins moved closer to Mark, hesitatingly.

"Mark…tell me what's wrong." Mark was silent, and looked like he was fighting back the urge to burst out crying. Collins tried again, his voice rising in urgency. "Please, Mark, let me in. Tell me what's wrong, let me help you…" He trailed off, alarmed, as Mark's defenses finally broke down as he let out a wracking sob, and fell to his knees on the floor before Collins. Collins rushed to comfort him, head spinning.

"Mark, Mark…talk to me…" Mark sniffled, and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he said quietly, as Collins looked on, concerned. "I don't know anything anymore. I feel so desperate sometimes, like I'm drowning, and I keep trying to swim and thrash and keep myself afloat, but something keeps dragging me down. I don't feel like myself anymore…I don't feel _anything_ anymore. I've been avoiding my emotions for so long that I don't even think I _have_ emotions anymore."

Collins stared at Mark, who was looking helplessly back at him, watching him, waiting for him to do something. Collins stepped over to him and enveloped him in a hug, and held him tightly as Mark dissolved into tears again.

A/N: I'm pretty proud of this chapter, it was difficult to write. Please review with any comments, help me make this story good.

the-fraulein: Thanks for the review! Yeah, dialogue trips me up sometimes, but thanks for telling me how to fix it, and for reading the story. Your stories are excellent, by the way.

Also, as a general note, I did my best to explain the complicated theory of everything. If I messed up the definition, feel free to correct me. Physics has never been my strong suit. My background information on the subject was from an encyclopedia website.


	3. I am Fortune's Fool

Still Life

Chapter Three

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, or any of the characters contained therein.

WARNING: This chapter deals with sensitive material, namely abortion. If this does not interest you, please click the back button on your browser now. Don't flame me for writing about it, because I'm warning you now. If you don't like it, don't read it.

Mark sat in his tiny room in the loft, meticulously splicing together footage for his film. He jumped when he heard a loud knock at the door, and got up, wondering whom it was. He opened the door and came face to face with Joanne. He cleared his throat nervously.

"Um…Maureen's not here…" Joanne smiled, sardonically.

"Good, because I came to talk to you, Mark." Mark felt himself go bright red.

"To me? Why?" He asked, voice rising a few notches. Joanne looked at him sympathetically.

"Collins told us about your discussion." Mark snorted.

"Nice to know he values a person's right to privacy." He muttered, half-heartedly.

"Mark…"Joanne began, hesitatingly. "Mark…he's worried about you. We all are."

"Oh." Said Mark, stupidly. He was torn between appreciation for the fact that they cared enough about him to worry, and annoyance at them discussing him behind his back. Joanne heaved a great sigh.

"Mark, I came here to let you know that I know how you feel." Mark looked up with interest.

"What do you mean?" He asked, inquisitively. Joanne looked down at her hands, and began twisting them together.

"Um, do you mind if…if we sit down for this?" She asked, visibly trembling. Mark's deep blue eyes looked at her with worry, as he gestured to the couch behind him. They both sat on the old couch, feeling its well-worn springs creaking below them. Mark offered her a shy grin, and she returned it with a watery smile.

"Mark, when Collins told me about what you said…how you felt, I wanted you to know that you're not alone. I know—I know it feels like it now, like no one understands, or like you have to fight this alone, but I'm here to tell you that you're wrong." Mark opened his mouth to interrupt her, but she held up a hand to quiet him. "Mark, what I have to say is very difficult for me to talk about, so I'd appreciate if you let me finish without interrupting." Mark eagerly nodded his assent, desperate to find out what Joanne had to say. "Mark…in my sophomore year I went through a deep phase of depression." She paused, and looked down at her hands, choking back tears. Mark leapt to his feet.

"Can I get you a tissue? A glass of water? Anything?" He asked her, desperately. She shook her head, looking amused at his antics, and he sat uneasily down. He could see her visible unease, so he reached out, timidly, to take her hand in his. She looked shocked at first, but then deeply touched, and she gave him a real smile, that re returned in kind.

"In my sophomore year at Harvard," She began again, her voice shaking. "I was still in denial about who I was. I thought my lack of attraction to men was my fault, because I never met the right man. I was growing increasingly insecure about who I was, _what_ I was, and one night, I took my troubles to a bar." She paused, and breathed deeply. "I met a man there, the kind of man you'd avoid if you met him on the street. But I was so lost, so young…so _stupid_." She finished, bitterly. "I let him take me back to his apartment, and I had sex with him. Unprotected sex." Mark's eyes widened in shock. Surely responsible, sensible, anal-retentive Joanne wouldn't do anything like that. Joanne noticed his incredulous stare and chuckled sadly. "I know, I know. How could I do that? When it was over…I was so ashamed. I left straight away, and went back to my dorm. I told my roommate I had been catching up with a friend. I thought the worst part was over, but I was wrong, Mark." She sighed, and leaned back in defeat. "In a month, I noticed I skipped my period. I brushed it off as stress, unwilling or unable to see what was in front of me. However, when I missed it again, there was no way I could ignore the facts. I was pregnant, Mark. Pregnant at twenty, by a man I didn't love, by a man I didn't even _know_. I knew there was no way I could support a baby. I wasn't done with school, I didn't have a job, I couldn't be a mother." Mark watched her, concern evident in his gaze. She took a deep breath, straightened up, and looked him in the eye. "I had an abortion, Mark."

Mark was shocked. In his stupefied state, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Does Maureen know?" Joanne shook her head, bitterly.

"Maureen the drama queen? No, she doesn't know." She looked at him, penetratingly. "You're the first person I've told." Mark was touched by her gesture. He knew how hard it was to ask for help, to reveal something personal; especially to someone you didn't know very well. He saw her watching him with the same look he often wore, one desperate for approval, for absolution. Mark felt tears brimming in his eyes, and he did what came naturally to him. He reached over and hugged her, letting her cry against his shoulder. Eventually, she drew back, and continued her story.

"After the operation was over, I didn't go out of my dorm for months. My grades slipped, I blew off friends, all I could concentrate on was my complete misery. I kept wondering about what would happen to me for doing this, if I would go to Hell, if I had committed murder. What made me the most unhappy was the sense of relief I felt. What kind of person feels relieved after something like that?" She looked at him, and her voice dissolved into sobs. "I didn't even find out if it was a boy or a girl." Mark was suddenly aware of the tears streaming down his face, he took of his glasses and furiously wiped his eyes. He took Joanne in another hug, and they both cried together, embracing in the middle of the empty, still apartment, crying noiselessly.

A/N: Whew! A tough chapter. As a side-note: My knowledge of abortion and what it entails is extremely limited. I thought that it was an experience Joanne could very well have gone through, maybe what had helped make her so control-freakish and "an anal retentive." If anyone finds the way I dealt with the subject matter offensive, please tell me so I can change it. As usual, please R&R. Major props to the-fraulein for reviewing chapters one and two.

the-fraulein: Yeah, I'm trying to include some under-used characters. Joanne and Mark so rarely interact, I thought there was a good opportunity to explore their perceptions of each other. Joanne strikes me as blunt enough to confront Mark about his feelings, whereas I feel Roger/Mimi/Collins would shy away from the issue, and not push it for fear of upsetting him. And Maureen…well, I don't think Mark would want her to talk to him while he was in a distressed state.


	4. I see madmen have no ears

Still Life

Chapter Four

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, nor any of the characters contained therein.

After Joanne left, Mark quietly put away his filming equipment, and sat down numbly on the couch, head spinning. He lay back on the old sofa and folded his hands over his lap, staring at the dingy grey ceiling. He was jolted from his comfortable position when he heard the door open.

"Hey!" He called out, as he saw Roger and Mimi come through the door.

"Hey!" Roger grinned back, as Mimi gave him a smile and a wave. Roger came running over to him and jumped on him, straddling him. Mark groaned in pain, and tried feebly to push him off. "Guess what, Marky?" He asked in a singsong voice.

"What?" Mark gasped, giving up all efforts to dislodge the heavy weight on top of him.

"Me and Mimi went shopping!" He practically yelled in excitement. Mark looked up at him blankly.

"Since when do you go shopping, Roger?" Roger looked down uncomfortably.

"Well…Mimi said you might like it if we did some of the stuff around the loft." He said in a rushed voice. Mark looked down at the faded fabric of the couch.

"Oh." He said quietly, feeling terrible. Roger and Mimi, HIV positive Roger and Mimi! Had felt bad for him, his friends with problems far larger than his own had taken it upon themselves to try and make him feel better. He rubbed the soft material between his fingers, guiltily. He had no right to impose his problems on them, especially when they shouldn't be concerned with anything but their own. He sighed, and fought tears back, feeling like the most horrible person on the face of the earth.

"Earth to Mark!" Roger called from the kitchen. Mark's head snapped up.

"Yeah?" He replied, fighting to keep his voice steady. Roger motioned him over, and Mark reluctantly went. Roger grinned excitedly and grasped Mimi's hand, thrusting a box at Mark. Mark took it curiously, and looked at it. It was a box of Grapenuts cereal.

"Roger…you _hate_ Grapenuts cereal. You used to throw out all the boxes of it Collins used to buy while he was asleep." Roger grinned sheepishly, and Mimi looked interestedly at him.

"Is that true, Roger?" Roger huffed indignantly, but his eyes were smiling.

"You've never tasted this stuff, Mimi, you don't know how gross it is. There aren't even any marshmallows in it!" He cried. Mimi snorted, and rubbed his head. Roger looked at Mark expectantly, but Mark just stared at him.

"Why did you buy the cereal if you hate it, Rog?" He asked, confused. Roger smiled at him, as did Mimi.

"We bought it 'cause _you_ like it, Mark." Mark eyes widened in recognition and he smiled sadly at Roger and Mimi.

"Thanks, guys." He said, feeling worse than before. Roger must have noticed something was wrong, because he cleared his throat nervously.

"Um, Mark?" He ventured, hesitatingly.

"Yeah?" Mark responded.

"Um…we're best friends, right?" He asked, timidly. Mark nodded his head, confused. "You know I make fun of you a lot." Mark nodded his head again, with an "um, duh." look on his face. "But…you know I don't mean it…right?" He asked, sounding afraid. Mark looked at him, and opened his mouth to respond, when Roger cut him off. "Mark…this depression thing…is it my fault?" Mark looked at him in horror, and was quick to respond.

"Oh, God, Roger, no. Definitely not." Roger didn't look convinced, so Mark continued. "Roger, you're my best friend. You always have been. You're like a brother to me." Roger perked up at this, and Mark kept going. "You're one of the best things in my life right now." He sat down, suddenly feeling tired. "This 'depression thing' isn't anyone's fault. It's something I need to figure out and deal with by myself, instead of dragging my friends down with me." He finished, bitterly. Roger glared at him.

"No." Mark was surprised.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" He asked.

"I mean, you are _not_ going to deal with this by yourself. Your friends are _not_ just going to sit by and watch you struggle." Mark opened his mouth to interject, but Roger kept on talking. "We're your friends, _Marky_," He said, drawing out Mark's hated nickname. "We care about you, and we're gonna help you, whether you like it or not!" He finished, and gave Mark a friendly punch to the shoulder. Mark looked up at him and smiled.

"Thank you, Roger." Mimi, sensing Roger had more to say, slipped away quietly to their room, giving him privacy to say it.

"Mark, I'll never forget all the things you've done for me. Withdrawal, April, Mimi…everything. I owe you so much, and I want to repay you. I'm your best friend, please don't shut me out. I know what it's like to feel hopeless. When I first found out I had HIV, I was so angry, I couldn't feel anything else. But when I stopped feeling angry, I began to feel afraid. Afraid and sad, how else can you feel knowing you only have a few years left to live? And I still feel like that sometimes, it's a normal motion, but I also learned that you need to see the good along with the bad. Mark, you're a great guy, the best friend I could ever hope for, and I'm gonna help you with this, just like you helped me." Roger smiled at him, and wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug, squeezing the breath out of his smaller friend. Mark gasped and tried to push him off, but Roger laughed and turned is hug into a headlock. Mark struggled vainly to escape from Roger's clutches, but Roger held him tighter.

"Now," he intoned, "Say 'Roger is the boss of me.'" He paused. "No, wait, say 'I am Roger's eternal slave.'" Mark, realizing resistance was futile, laughingly repeated the phrase. "All right!" Roger cheered, and released Mark. He walked over to the door.

"Where are you going?" Asked Mark, rubbing his neck. Roger smirked.

"To buy some _good_ cereal. Grapenuts suck!" He yelled, and exited the loft, leaving Mark doubled over in a fit of laughter.

A/N: All right! Another chapter _and_ another review, courtesy of the most excellent the-fraulein. Glad you liked the chapter, and thanks for the review. Roger is definitely harder for me to write than Collins or Joanne. I don't think I quite managed to make him sound realistic, so if ANYONE wants to review with criticism or suggestions, I would greatly appreciate it. I'm starting to think this story is really bad, I mean, _no one_ is reviewing! (Except for the-fraulein, whom I am eternally grateful to)


	5. Alas! Poor Yorick

Still Life

Chapter Five

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, nor any of the characters contained therein.

Mark chuckled softly to himself, and sat down on the couch. He propped his feet up and turned on the old television, flipping idly through the channels. He sat up when he heard the door to Roger's room open, and smiled at Mimi.

"Hey." He called out, and turned his attention back to the screen.

"Hey." She replied, and sat down next to him. She stared at him, and he turned to her, bracing himself for another lecture.

"What's up, Mimi?" She started.

"Oh, nothing. How do you feel?" He shrugged.

"Alright, I suppose. How do you feel?" He asked, deftly deflecting attention from himself. She smiled, and he knew she had seen through his tactic.

"I feel good. Better than I have in a while."

"That's good." He replied, and they lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Mimi shifted slightly, and stared intently at the screen.

"Roger's worried about you, you know." He turned off the television, and gave her his full attention. "He'd never tell you outright, but he loves you, and he's worried. We all are. You're not acting right…you seem different. You're not the Mark we know." Mark was silent, and he struggled not lash out at her verbally.

"The Mark you know?" He asked, his quavering voice betraying the emotions below it. "There is no Mark you know. There's the Mark I've always been, and the Mark you've always seen. And I'm beginning to figure out that those two Marks are very different people." He took a deep breath, and seemed to regain control. "Mimi, I'm sorry. I know you have your own problems, and they're a lot bigger than mine. I just—I just need to figure out who I am." He gave her a lopsided smile. "I need to figure out how to make two Marks into one." She looked at him pityingly, and he couldn't take it. He had had enough of pity and sympathy and the barely-disguised looks of worry people were sending him. He scowled, and stood up, startling Mimi.

"Mark, where are you going?" She asked, nervously.

"Out." Was his brusque reply, and he quickly strode over to the door and opened it, flying down the stairs and out of the building. He was overcome by an uncontrollable urge to run, to shout, to do _anything_. Anything to get rid of the gloom that was settling over him. He tried to push aside his annoyance at his friends, and walked a little faster, jamming his hands in his pockets. He had gone two blocks before he realized he had forgotten his camera. He turned around, grudgingly to go back to the loft to get it, when he bumped into a very familiar person. Roger's old dealer was grinning at him, and motioned for Mark to follow him into the alley to the side of them. Mark's initial response was to firmly refuse and walk away, but for some reason his feet and mind weren't on the same page, and he found himself cautiously following the man into the dingy, dark alley. The dealer looked surprised that Mark had followed him, but shrugged. Business was business.

"What can I get ya, pretty boy?" Mark remained mute, and stared at the disheveled, dirty man in front of him. The dealer was frustrated by his lack of reply. "What is it you want kid, pot? Crack?" Something in Mark snapped, and he was startled by what came out of his mouth.

"Smack." The dealer looked mildly surprised at the clean-cut young man with the boyish features who stood in front of him, demanding heroin. "And a needle." He added, as an afterthought. The dealer gladly obliged, and held out the aforementioned goods. Mark reached out to take them, but was stopped by the blade of a very lethal-looking stiletto.

"First, the money." The dealer warned, and kept the blade out. Mark rummaged around in his pockets, and pulled out a few crumpled bills.

"It's all I have." Mark said, truthfully. The dealer took them warily, and inspected them. Satisfied, he handed the drugs to Mark, leaving him very much alone in the alley. Mark looked down at the needle in his hand, and up at the sky above him. He frowned, stuffing the offending articles in his pockets, and headed off to a place where he could be alone.

A/N: Alright! The long-overdue chapter five, with a pitiful attempt at a cliffhanger. I'm going to see RENT on the 29th, so maybe I'll have some awesome inspiration after that. Oh, and just a hint—reviews make me update faster, so if you want to see poor Marky's fate with the drugs, review please!

Mad propz to **the-fraulein**, for being my most faithful reviewer, and thanks to **L.M Ward** and **Alisa**. Yay, reviewers!


	6. Winter of our discontent

Still Life

Chapter Six

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, nor any of the characters contained therein.

Mark sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the box in front of him. Cautiously, he looked around, going so far as to open his door to check that no one was currently in the loft with him. Satisfied, he crept back into his room, and sat down again. He picked up the box, and held it, cradling it in his arms, feeling its weight. He laid it down again, gently, and almost fearfully, removed its cover. He looked at the small fortune he had amassed within. Everyday after his fight with Mimi, Mark had gone back to the dealer. Each day he bought the same thing. And each day, he brought back the goods, and stored them in his battered shoebox. Mark picked up a needle reverently, and watched the glaring fluorescent light from his lamp glance off it. He put it back into the box, and sat back again, thinking.

He didn't use any of the drugs; he wasn't stupid, he reasoned with himself. It was the thrill of buying them, the way they made him feel alive, feel dangerous. He went back every day for the rush, the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. He craved it, he needed the feeling. Mark chuckled bitterly to himself. It was pathetic to think that the only thing keeping him going was the rush of buying illegal drugs.

Mark sighed, and lay back on the bed. He knew all the risks, and they were what made his daily excursions worth it. He wondered if he was doing it to get caught, if he wanted to get caught. He turned over on his side, and faced the wall. How would he explain this to someone? That he didn't buy the drugs to get high, that he didn't even use the drugs! How would he explain that he bought them purely for the sake of buying them, for feeling dangerous, feeling energetic, feeling like a different person, Mark concluded glumly. He rolled back over onto his back, and removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

He was playing a dangerous game, he reflected, and sooner or later, he was going to lose. Just as he had closed his eyes, he heard the door to the loft slam shut.

"Mark?" That was Roger's voice. Mark panicked, and said nothing, willing him to disappear. "Mark?" He called again, and received no reply. Mark suddenly sprang into action, and grabbed for his precious shoebox, scrambling to put it away, when he spilled its contents all over the floor. Mark froze, and the door to his room opened.

"Hey, Mark." Roger said, casually, leaning in the doorframe. "What's up?" Mark feigned nonchalance.

"Nothing…how was practice?" Roger snorted.

"Our drummer had to go to the ER after one of the drumsticks he threw in the air hit him in the eye." He smiled, and Mark chuckled nervously.

_Don't come in, don't come in_, Mark pleaded silently. Roger came in.

"Have you seen my lucky guitar pick?" Roger inquired.

"Uh…no." Mark replied, distracted, as he stared at the needle that lay on the ground behind Roger.

"Are you okay, Mark?" Roger asked. "You're acting really weird…"

"Oh…sorry." Mark apologized, but continued to stare at the spot a foot from Roger's black Dr. Martens. Roger followed his gaze, and turned around. Mark shut his eyes, and willed the earth to swallow him whole.

"Hey, what's that?" Roger asked, curiously. He bent down to pick it up, and Mark stumbled backwards, kneading his eyes with his knuckles. Roger picked up the needle, Mark grasped at the doorframe. Roger held it up to the light, Mark let out a soft moan, and slumped against the wooden frame. Roger's face went from bemused to shocked, to nothing. Mark watched him with frightened eyes. Roger turned away from him and seemed to be trying to get control of his temper. Roger looked at the needles covering the floor, and picked them up, one by one, and placed them in the battered shoebox. When he was satisfied that there were no more needles or little, white packets lurking in the dank interior of Mark's bedroom, he picked up the carefully-maintained box, and flung it against the wall. Mark winced, and his head reverberated with the piercing sound of glass shattering. Roger looked at him, and when he didn't say anything, he picked up Mark's lamp and threw it as hard as he could at him, Mark dodged it just in time, and barely avoided slicing his hand to ribbons on the fragments. He closed his eyes, and waited for Roger's temper to really erupt.

Roger seemed incapable of speech, and simply began throwing anything he could get his hands on, crying as he did so. Mark watched, detached, as pieces of his life shattered against the stained walls. Old tapes, camera parts, pictures, even the hot plate his mother had given him for Christmas. Roger stopped, shoulders heaving, and turned to face Mark, Mark looked back at him, unwavering. Roger's eyes were pleading with him to do something, say something to explain. When Mark was silent, his pleading gave way to anger once more, as he picked up Mark's camera and smashed it against the floor, grinding it into the wood with the heel of his boot. Mimi came running into the room. Roger stared at her. Mark stared at the remains of his camera. Mimi looked at both of them.

'What the hell are you two doing?" She asked, sounding more concerned than angry. Roger's eyes were burning a hole into Mark, commanding him to explain to Mimi. When Mark remained mute, Roger let out a primal roar of frustration, and pushed past both of them, storming out of the loft, and slamming the door. Mimi watched him go, and turned to Mark, eyes begging him to tell her what happened. Something in Mark rebelled, and he refused to speak once more. He walked calmly out of the wreckage of his room, out of the loft, down the street, and into a dark, nameless bar two blocks over, leaving Mimi alone in the loft to discover what had torn two best friends apart, for what seemed like the final time.

A/N: All right! **SparkilyDragnStikers, rentjunkie6688, ****the-fraulein**and **bubblesnbrooms** all get shout-outs for being awesome reviewers. And I'm going to revamp Roger's chapter soon, but I thought you all might like a new chapter first! And for all of you who were hoping that Mark would be taking the drugs…well, let's just say the story isn't over yet.

This was definitely one of the more angst-heavy chapters, but I like it all the same.

Next Chapter—guess whom Mark meets in a dark bar? Well, whom would you expect to find in a random bar at any time of day? That's right! MAUREEN! Should be an interesting chapter, to say the least, if it comes out right.

Right, well, you lot know the deal, read and **review**! (Please)


	7. The arrows of outrageous fortune

Still Life

Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, nor any of the characters contained therein.

Mark stumbled blindly down the street, shivering heavily and folding his arms into his chest. He collapsed against a brick wall, breathing heavily. He looked around, realized he didn't know where he was, and slid down to sit with his back pressed against the wall, gasping for breath. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to clear his head. He still felt oddly detached from the events back in the apartment, even the destruction of his treasured camera failed to produce a reaction in him. The chill in the air was becoming more pronounced, he staggered to his feet, and set off walking back to what he thought was the direction of the loft.

He strode down the street, rubbing his hands together, trying futilely to combat the raw, bitter cold attacking them. A roar of laughter caught his attention, and he looked curiously to his right. Three men had stumbled out the door of bar Mark vaguely recognized. They staggered off down the street, slapping each other on the back and laughing. Mark watched them go, and then walked over to the bar. He looked up at the sign above him, and then mentally kicked himself. It was the Cat Scratch Club, the club where Mimi worked. Mark knew he shouldn't risk getting caught by Mimi, or worse Roger, whom he knew sometimes went with Mimi to the club to protect her from especially grabby or drunk patrons. Still…it was very cold outside, and Mark could see the inviting warmth inside. Mark was seized by a sudden burst of bravado, and threw open the door, recklessly walking inside. Once Mark was inside, he was hit by the full atmosphere of the club, and began to feel a little sick. Leering men were cheering drunkenly, and the stench of alcohol was everywhere. Mark shook his head to clear it, and headed over to a small table in the back. He sat down and drummed his fingers on the table, wishing he had his camera. Thinking about his camera brought back unpleasant memories of what happened earlier, Mark took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, feeling very tired. He slumped down in his chair, trying to block out the dull roar all around him.

"Pookie! Pookie!" Mark's head snapped up. He groaned, _not her, not her, please, not her…_Maureen waltzed up behind him, and plunked herself down in the chair opposite him, sliding him a beer and grinning flirtatiously.

"Marky! What are you doing here?" Mark sighed, and shook his head.

"Nothing…what are _you_ doing here? I thought Joanne didn't like you hanging around in bars." He asked wearily, preparing himself for the rant he knew was coming.

"She's not the boss of me!" Maureen said, indignantly. "She just doesn't understand me!" Mark took a long drink, and settled in for what he knew was going to be a very long rant. "I mean, can you believe she _actually_ got mad at me because that girl in Central Park was flirting with me?" Maureen huffed, outraged. "Like it's _my_ fault I'm so attractive!" Mark rolled his eyes. "That woman doesn't know how lucky she is!" She paused, and looked at Mark. "Jeez, what's wrong with you tonight?"

"Nothing." He snapped, irritably. She made a face at him.

"Whatever. Where's your camera? I think this is the first time I've seen you without it in years." She remarked, curiosity piqued. Mark balled his hands into fists.

"It broke." He said, shortly. Maureen gasped, eyes wide.

"It _broke_? You never let it out of your sight, you'd never let it break!" She exclaimed, incredulously. Suddenly, her eyes took on a knowing gleam, and she leaned over the table to whisper to him. "Unless _someone_ broke it!" Mark glared at her, and clutched his bottle angrily.

"Just drop it, okay?" He said, bitterly. But Maureen was aglow with the thought of potential gossip, and she began asking questions, gleefully.

"Who broke it? Was it Mimi? She's kind of a klutz." Mark rolled his eyes.

"Mimi didn't break my camera, Maureen, and she's not that much of a klutz." Mark retorted, annoyed.

"Ooooh." Maureen said, thinking. "It probably wasn't Collins, and it definitely wasn't Joanne…was it Benny?" Mark sighed, growing very impatient with the conversation.

"I haven't seen Benny in weeks, you know that." He said pointedly, making it clear he wished to end the conversation. Maureen's face contorted in thought.

"But that only leaves…Roger?" She took Mark's stony silence for assent. "Roger broke your camera?" She practically yelled. All of a sudden, the events of the night hit him full force, and he leapt up from his seat. Maureen was startled. "Mark, where are you going?" He didn't answer, and continued walking hurriedly to the door. "Mark? Mark!" She yelled, as he threw open the door, and left.

He began walking quickly down the street, overcome with thoughts and emotions. He unconsciously quickened his pace to the point where he was sprinting. He flew down familiar streets and avenues, his feet automatically carrying him back to the loft, while his head spun with the heavy weight of realization. He pushed open the door to his building roughly, and ran up the stairs to the loft, shouldering the door open, and sprinting determinedly past a worried Mimi to his room. He slammed the door shut, locked it, and surveyed the damage. His possessions were lying all over the floor, amongst shards of glass and shattered plastic. He picked his way delicately around the ruins of his life to the spot where his camera lay, crushed beyond recognition. He picked it up, gently, and cradled it. He looked down and the twisted, bent frame and carefully extracted the damaged film from the wrecked interior. He placed the crinkled black mass gingerly on his bedside table, and slowly made his way over to his bed. He sat on the unmade bedspread, and continued to stare down at the unrecognizable remains of his camera. Idly, he turned it over in his hands, feeling the foreign shape of it, and wishing for it to magically restore itself to its former glory. He knew he was being juvenile, but he closed his eyes and concentrated on wishing for his old camera back. When he opened them, and saw only the sad shadow of his former obsession, he began to cry unabashedly. His shoulders heaved with sobs, and he cast away his glasses, not bothering to wipe away the tears flowing down his cheeks. He lay down slowly, and clasped his knees to his chest, drawing deep, shuddery breaths. His crying increased in volume, as he wailed plaintively, wishing for his old life. He could hear Mimi pounding on the door and calling his name frantically, but he shut his eyes and blocked her out, concentrating solely on his abject misery. He stayed huddled in the fetal position for hours, his body unwilling to relinquish his mind to sleep. He heard Roger come in, early in the morning, and heard him scream at Mimi, who began crying, and heard him slam the door to his adjacent room, and begin angrily plucking out the notes of Musetta's Waltz, drowning out Mimi's sniffles. Mark lay awake, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, berating himself for every single mistake he had made. He rolled over, and winced as his back hit something hard. He sat up, and examined his mattress. He saw a needle, glinting in the moonlight. Roger had missed one, he thought to himself. He made to throw it in the trashcan, but stopped, thoughtfully, and placed it in his bedside drawer…just in case. After lying awake for a few more hours, it was daylight, and he got himself up to make some breakfast. He scrounged around the various cupboards in the kitchen, looking for food but finding none.

"Fade in on Mark," he began irritably. "Who foolishly expects to find food in his kitchen cabinets." He sighed, frustrated, and turned around to return to his room. He stopped short when he saw Mimi. The look in her eyes told him everything—Roger had told her. He scowled and went to move past her when she grabbed his arm.

"Mark…how could you?" She said, accusingly. He stared at her, amazed. "How could you do that to Roger?" His scowl deepened, and he shook her off, roughly.

"How could _I_ do that to him?" He asked, incredulously. "How could good old responsible Mark do something to hurt _Roger_?" He smiled, bitterly. "Don't you dare make this about Roger," She stepped back, shaken by the venom in his voice. "It is _not_ about Roger. This is about _me_. But I can understand why you don't really 'get' that, because it's never really about me, is it? Mark's never in the spotlight, he's only filming it." His voice increased in volume. "It's not important what _Mark_ wants, who cares what _Mark_ thinks, _Mark_ doesn't understand!" He paused, and took controlling breaths. "But this time, it was about me. I've been through a lot with Roger, April, rehab, and everything after, but the one time _I_ needed _him_, he let me down." Mark knew he was being irrational, but he was past the point of caring, and he stormed away to his room, leaving Mimi standing alone in the middle of the loft. Mark walked angrily back to his bed, where he flopped down, brooding. He pressed a pillow over his face, willing himself to forget. When he removed the pillow, his eyes caught the glint of the needle once more. Slowly, carefully, he lifted it out off the drawer, and held it aloft. He smiled, grimly.

"How did I get here?" He breathed, and plunged the needle into his arm.

**A/N: **Yo, mad shoutouts and props to the awesome**SparkilyDragnStikers, Harper's Pixie, the-fraulein, MandiMooShoe, **and **Ashley. **Yep, that's right, review my story and you totally get mentioned by name in the Author's Note. Anyways, this chapter was a little over-due, and I have some stuff to point out.

**Mark's Camera**: I just got back from seeing RENT on Broadway, and realized something. I unconsciously picture Mark's camera as the kind of artistic photographer's camera I have, one that would be relatively easy to break, especially if you stepped on it. _However_, Mark's camera in actuality is a fairly indestructible looking metal contraption, and therefore would be unlikely to even dent under the heel of Roger's boot. So…I'm just going to have to ask you guys to sort of gloss over that mistake, because apart from maybe throwing it out a window and having it run over by a taxi (which is not quite as dramatic as Roger stepping on it) there's no other way to have it break. Sorry!

**Originality**: Thanks, **SparkilyDragnStikers** for complimenting the way Mark was "buying the drugs, not using them." I hope the ending of this chapter isn't the plot equivalent of "selling out." I try to keep my material, let me know if it gets too cliche

**Maureen**: You may have noticed Maureen might have been spectacularly out of character in this chapter. I apologize, having no excuse other than it's hard to capture Maureen's personality, since it's so outrageous. I have more trouble with the main characters (Mimi, Roger, Maureen) than I do with the oft-overlooked supporting cast. Any feedback is welcome.

**Next Chapter**: Fade in on Mark, who's still in the dark, 'cause he's on heroin, and completely passed out.

Heh. Review, please, and I promise a shoutout!


	8. Except my life

Still Life

Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, nor any of the characters contained therein.

Mark gasped and tumbled backwards, smacking his head on his bedside table. He groaned in agony, and stared up at the harsh, fluorescent glare of his light. He squinted and tried to roll over, but found he couldn't move his body. He vaguely registered someone calling his name in the background.

"Mark! Mark!" He smiled, stupidly. Mark was his name. The yelling was growing louder, and he could hear fists beating on his door. He began to softly chant his name along with the speaker, and closed his eyes, feeling numb all over. As everything grew dark to his eyes, he recognized the voice calling him as Mimi's.

"Hi, Mimi." He said, softly. She didn't hear him, and kept pounding on his door, begging him tearfully to open it. Mark frowned, confused. He didn't know why Mimi wanted to get into his room so badly, or why she sounded so worried. "It's okay, Mimi," He whispered. "You don't have to worry, I'm—". Abruptly, he sat up and vomited, all over himself. He clutched his stomach, and began moaning as shooting pains left him crippled. He struggled to try and sit up, but found he couldn't. He began to panic, as he realized he was choking on his own vomit. Distantly, he could hear a dull thumping on his door. Suddenly, the door burst open, and in the frame stood Roger, clutching his shoulder. He heard Roger yell something at him, but couldn't make out his words. Roger's face swam before his eyes, looking frightened and concerned. Mark struggled to talk, and Roger heaved him to an upright position. Mark coughed, and spattered the carpet in front of him with bile and blood. Roger was yelling again, and Mark feebly wished for him to stop. He clutched his stomach again, and swayed, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. He shivered convulsively, as violent spasms wracked his body. He felt someone pick him up, and squirmed, trying to free himself of his captor's arms. He heard Roger swear violently, and tighten his grasp. A cold sweat was beading on his forehead, and he began to lose consciousness, mumbling deliriously. He felt someone shaking him, and then blacked out completely.

Roger shook him, screaming at him to wake up, and yelled for Mimi to call an ambulance. Mimi, confused and shocked, ran immediately to the phone and dialed 911. Roger resumed feebly shaking Mark, begging him to wake up. Mimi conversed quietly with someone on the other end of the line, and hung up.

"Roger…" She said, softly. Roger didn't move from his position by Mark. She touched his shoulder lightly, and he started violently, but didn't take his eyes off of Mark. Mimi understood, and felt like she was intruding on a bond that would outlast everything life threw at them. "Roger…" She tried again, but was interrupted by Roger's silent sobbing. She saw his shaking shoulders and felt her heart break for him; she knelt down next to him and wrapped her thin frame around his body, and let him cry into her shoulder. They stayed, waiting anxiously for the ambulance. Finally, they heard sirens coming and leapt to their feet. Two official-looking paramedics came running into the loft, stretcher in tow. They ignored Mimi and Roger's desperate questioning, and loaded a prone Mark onto a stretcher, taking his pulse and shouting out medical jargon. Roger and Mimi followed them hurriedly down the stairs, unable to talk. When they arrived at the ambulance and attempted to enter it, they were stopped by a bored-looking official.

"No one but family is allowed in the vehicle. Sorry." He intoned, sounding completely unsympathetic. Roger snorted.

"Yeah, well, we're his parents, so open the damn door." He snarled, and pushed his way in, taking Mimi's hand in his own. The driver looked like he wanted to protest, but one look at Roger's sullen, angry form silenced him, as he turned back to the front, meekly. The paramedics shut the doors, and the ambulance sped off to the hospital.

Roger paced anxiously around the small waiting room, running his hands distractedly through his hair. Mimi watched him from a chair, an unopened magazine sitting in her lap. She closed her eyes, wearily, and sank back in the chair. Roger abruptly stopped his pacing and threw himself into a chair next to hers. He hunched over, and put his face in his hands. Mimi put a hand on his knee, and he grasped it, desperately. She wanted passionately to say something to comfort him, but understood that Roger's fears would not be assuaged until he got to speak to Mark himself. She settled for leaning her head against his shoulder, and hugging his arm. Roger sat stoically, not moving or blinking. His face was blank and unreflecting of the inner turmoil he was facing. He was tearing himself apart with guilt and anger, berating himself relentlessly. He stood up, shaking Mimi off, and stalked out of the waiting room. He wandered aimlessly around the sterile white hallways of the hospital, looking for anything to distract him. He spotted a coffee machine, and got two cups. He brought one back for Mimi, who accepted it thankfully, and didn't question him. Roger stared into the murky brown liquid, as though he could find the answer in his Styrofoam cup. He sipped it, and winced at the sugary-sweet taste. Roger preferred his coffee black, Mark had always been the one who would add five packets of sugar to his coffee. Roger felt his lower lip tremble, and blinked away hot tears. He looked up as he heard a doctor enter the room, and sprang to his feet, striding over to the doctor.

"Is he okay?" Roger demanded, anxiously. The doctor looked at him nervously, and cleared his throat.

"Ah…I'm sorry sir, but we can't release medical information to non-family members." The doctor stated, looking apologetic and a little bit afraid. Roger sighed, and ran his hands through his hair, staring up at the ceiling.

"Look," He gritted out. "That guy in there? He's my best friend. And it's my fault he's in there." At this, Mimi made a noise of protest, but Roger quieted her and continued. "Mark doesn't have any family in the city, all he has are his friends. And now you're trying to tell me that because of some stupid, idiot rule, I don't get to know if he's alright?" Roger's voice was rising, and the young doctor backed up a few paces, looking around nervously. "Just fucking tell me whether or not he's going to be okay!" He screamed, and a nurse came hurrying over to him.

"Sir, if you don't quiet down, you'll have to leave the hospital." She said authoritatively, and motioned for him to sit back down. Roger swore, frustrated, and stomped off to the hallway, Mimi following. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, feeling very tired. He felt Mimi slip her hand into his, and he squeezed it reassuringly, grateful she understood what he was feeling.

"I can call Mark's family." Mimi said, quietly. Roger nodded, thankfully.

"I'll call Collins, Maureen, and Joanne." He offered. She smiled, and pecked him on the cheek.

"It'll be okay, Roger." She said to him, and left to find a payphone. Roger sighed, and set off in the opposite direction, looking for the payphone he had passed earlier. He found it in a few minutes, and stood staring at it. A man huffed impatiently behind him.

"Look, buddy, other people have to use the phone." Roger spun around to face the man, and got up close to his face.

"Listen, 'buddy,'" He sneered, mockingly. "Some of us have best friends in the ER that might not be coming out alive." The man's eyes widened, and he stepped back, muttering an apology, as he left hurriedly. Roger rolled his eyes and turned back to the phone. He picked up the receiver and inserted quarters into the slot. It rang once, twice, and then Collins picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey…Collins. It's me, Roger. Roger Davis, you know." Roger knew he was babbling, and forced himself to concentrate. "Uh, yeah, listen, I'm calling about Mark. He's in the hospital. It's, uh," Here Roger began to choke up. "It's pretty bad, Collins…I don't know if he was breathing…" There was a silence on the other end of the line, then at last Collins spoke.

"I'll be right there." A click, and the line went dead. Roger placed the telephone back into cradle with trembling hands. He took a moment to compose himself, then picked up the telephone again. He dialed Maureen and Joanne's apartment. He waited for five rings, until:

"Hi!" That was Maureen's high-pitched voice. "You've reached Maureen and Joanne. We can't answer the phone right now," Here there was a noise as if two people were wrestling for control of the phone. "Probably because we're having wild, passionate—" Here there was another scuffle, and a yelp from Maureen, as Joanne seemed to gain control. "Please leave a message at the tone." She finished calmly. Roger sighed, wondering how you told something this serious to a machine.

"Hey, guys, it's me, Roger. Um, I'm calling from the hospital. Mark's here. Not here with me, but he's here in the hospital. In the ER. I—I don't know if he's okay. Collins is coming, and Mimi's here. She's calling his family. The doctors won't tell us anything. Come as soon as you get this message—okay? Alright, bye." He hung up, and walked away from the phone. Roger met Mimi back in the waiting room.

"I called his mother." Mimi said, softly. "She was hysterical…screaming and crying." Roger snorted.

"That sounds like Mark's mom." Mimi gave a half-smile, and continued.

"She's coming up right now, she should be here in a few hours. I think his sister's coming too, as well as his dad." Roger rolled his eyes.

"I'm sure Mark will be overjoyed to see them." Mimi raised an eyebrow at him.

"Mark doesn't like his family?" She asked.

"It's not that he doesn't like them, it's just that he avoids them at all costs. They never really understood the whole starving-artist deal we all have going. His mom sends us kitchen appliances every birthday and Hannukah." Mimi smiled.

"Does she know that Mark trades them for camera stuff?" Roger grinned.

"I don't think she even knows Mark has a camera." Mimi smiled, half-heartedly. Roger looked down for a moment, and continued. "Mark and I have been roommates and friends for so long…we never needed anyone else, 'cause we had had each other. His family out in Scarsdale might have grown up with him—but you, me, Collins—"

"And Maureen!" Mimi interjected cheerfully. Roger grinned, and kept going.

"_And Maureen_ are really his family. His dysfunctional family, that is." Mimi scoffed.

"We're a hell of a lot less dysfunctional than _my_ actual family." Roger took her hand in his.

"And mine." He said, planting a kiss on top of her head.

"Much as I regret to inform you, _my_ family was the picture of normality." Came a deep voice from behind them. They turned around and greeted Collins with a wave. He sat down beside them. "Any news?" Roger shook his head.

"We're waiting for Mark's family to get here." Collins nodded his understanding, and they resumed waiting in silence.

**A/N**: Alright! Another chapter, and in a reasonable amount of time! And it's even pretty long, so I feel pretty good about this one.

**Alisa**—thanks very much for the praise, I appreciate it. It means a lot to me to know people enjoy my work.

**TechieRemix**—I checked out Cellophane Sun (which, by the way, is excellent, and I urge you all to give it a look) and I can assure you, this story will not be going in that direction.

**SparkilyDragnStikers**, **BwayDiva**, and **Harper's Pixie**—thanks a lot for reviewing,guys. Sometimes I get so sick of this story I want to stop writing it, but reviews keep me going, 'cause I know how much it sucks when authors don't update.

'K, guys, there was sort of an "Eh" reaction to Mark taking the drugs—most people seemed to prefer him just buying them. In my defense, I can only say that I needed some action in the story. Chapter after chapter of Mark brooding would get boring to read (and write). Plus, more Roger this way! And we all know _that's_ not a bad thing.


	9. Words, words, words

Still Life

Chapter Nine

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, nor any of the characters contained therein.

An hour and a half later, none of them had spoken yet. Roger was clenching his fists, staring determinedly down at the floor; eyes focused and brimming with unshed tears. Mimi sat beside him, not touching him, simply watching his face contort with agony. Collins perched on the back of a chair, staring off into the distance, eyes unfocused. The door behind them flew open, and a woman's hysterical voice could be heard.

"Mark! Mark! Oh, Marky…" The woman howled, and buried her face into her husband's coat. He hugged her dutifully, and looked around the waiting room with weary eyes. Roger watched them, Mark's parents, talking to the doctor. He stood up abruptly, and walked across to them, well aware of Mimi and Collins's eyes on his back. He hesitated, and strode up to them, gaining new determination and purpose with every step. The doctor had stopped talking by now, and was watching the young man with the spiked blonde hair and leather jacket elbow Mark's parents out of the way.

"So?" He demanded. "Is Mark okay?" The doctor looked at him, confused. "I'm sorry sir, we don't release patient information to non-family members—" Roger interrupted him,

"Yeah, well, tell it to them, then." He said, jerking his thumb behind him, indicating Mark's dazed parents. "I'll just listen." The doctor bristled.

"I'm sorry, _sir_, but since you are not a family member—" Roger's one remaining thread of patience snapped.

"Bullshit!" He spat. "I'm more Mark's family than Ward and June over here." Mark's mother drew her self up to her full height, hissing indignantly.

"Excuse me, young man, but I happen to think that Mark would want his parents here—" Roger scoffed.

"Well then, you obviously don't know him very well, do you?" He glared at her, and she returned his fiery gaze. Roger laughed, a note of desperation creeping in. "I mean, God! You people really are something," He continued to laugh, and saw Mimi give Collins a worried glance, and rise from her seat. "I mean, Mark's lying all alone in that room and you won't even tell us, his best friends, his _real_ family," Here he shot a dirty look at the Cohens. "How he's doing!" Mark's mother exhaled angrily.

"Look, I don't know who you are, or how you know Mark, but how dare you presume to tell us about our son!" A vein was popping out in her temple, and he was beginning to look absolutely livid. "_Our_ son, the boy _we_ raised. Our Mark---" Roger blew up.

"Your Mark? You don't even know the first thing about Mark!" He yelled. At this, a nurse came over to them.

"Sir, I warned you once before about this behavior. Either return to your seat now, or leave the hospital immediately." Roger cursed, angrily, and seemed to deflate. He looked contrite, and glanced apologetically at Mark's parents.

"I just want to see Mark." He said, in a voice that was barely above a whisper. He felt a small hand on his shoulder, and jumped. He hadn't heard Mimi come up behind him. He looked down at her, and she offered him a small, comforting smile. Mark looked for Collins, and saw him quietly discussing something with Mark's father, a few feet away. He saw Mr. Cohen nod once, and then return to the group. He addressed the doctor,

"Dr. Williams, would it be alright if Roger saw Mark now?" Roger did a double take, as did Mrs. Cohen, who looked about to protest. Mark's father interpreted her look, "Honey, these are Mark's friends. They've been living with him for years. They have just as much claim to Mark as we do. We'll always be Mark's family, but so will they." His gaze softened, and he took her hand. "Roger is Mark's best friend. All he wants is to see Mark." Mrs. Cohen didn't look completely convinced, but she didn't argue with her husband. The doctor, seeing an opportunity for a peaceful resolution, said diplomatically,

"Mr. and Mrs. Cohen, there's some paperwork that needs to be filled out, and I still need to go over, in detail, Mark's condition. Perhaps if you let him see your son while we discuss technicalities…?" The Cohens nodded their assent, and went off with the doctor, who was explaining the proper way to fill out the insurance forms. Roger followed the nurse along the corridors until he reached Mark's room. He took a deep breath, grasped the doorknob, and gently pushed open the heavy, wood door. He walked tentatively into the room, and saw Mark sitting up in bed, resting his head against fluffy, white pillows.

"Hey." Roger said.

"Hey." Mark replied.

**A/N**: All right! One more chapter done, but it took an obscene amount of time for me to post it, didn't it?

**Harper's Pixie**: I hope this chapter goes a little way to sate your appetite for an angry!Roger?

**MandiMooShoe, Mo, BwayDiva**: Major props for reading (and reviewing!). I really, really appreciate feedback. Muchos gracias, my friends.

**Prose In My Pocket**: Thanks a lot for praise. Mark's always been one of my favorite characters, and there's really a lot of room for exploration in his personality. I love seeing different portrayals of Mark, since his dialogue in the musical can be interpreted in drastically different ways.

All right, kiddos, I'd appreciate reviews, if it's not too much trouble. As usual, thanks for reading, it's amazing to have a story with 1000 hits! You guys really are something!


	10. The conscience of the King

Still Life

Chapter Ten

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, nor any of the characters contained therein.

Mimi and Collins watched Roger practically run down the hallway to Mark's room. Mimi sighed, feeling very small, and very cold all of a sudden. Collins heard her sharp intake of breath, and placed a comforting arm around her shoulder, leading her back to her plastic seat. She leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and closed her eyes, exhausted. Just as she was beginning to drift off, the door opened loudly. Again. Mimi huffed in irritation. _Honestly_, she thought, _this is a hospital_! Mimi tried to tune out the incessant high-pitched wailing of the voice, but she jolted awake, suddenly, realizing that she recognized said high-pitched wailing.

"Maureen?" She said, twisting around to get a look at the dramatic scene unfolding behind her. Mimi, as well as most of the waiting room, was watching the blonde-haired beauty wail and sob, collapsing in a heap on the floor, only to stand up and fall down again. Mimi watched, incredulous, and snuck a peek at Mark's parents. They looked on in suburban, sheltered horror, and Mimi had to stifle a laugh. She snorted, ungracefully, and felt Collins' elbow dig into her side. She looked up at him, apologetically, but noticed his attention was not on her. Rather, he was staring at Joanne, who was, in turn, staring at nothing, tears welling up in her eyes. Mimi watched her try to swallow the lump in her throat without much success. She was gripping the handle of her briefcase so tightly her knuckles were turning white, and she seemed oblivious to Maureen's hysterics. Maureen, put out at the lack of attention from her girlfriend, threw herself at Joanne's feet, clutching her legs, and sobbing loudly. This seemed to snap Joanne out of her silence.

"Damn it, Maureen!" Maureen recoiled, in shock, and stood up, quickly. Joanne put her hand to her head. "Maureen…do you understand why we're here? This isn't some stupid game, or some audition for whatever the hell show you want to be in this week. This is real, _real_, do you understand?" She said, quietly, in a controlled voice. "Mark is lying in some godforsaken hospital bed, possibly dying, and you're writhing around on the floor like a fish out of water. Get a goddamn grip!" She spat, frustrated. Mimi and Collins exchanged uneasy glances, and Mimi started to go over to Joanne, when Collins grabbed her arm. He motioned for her to take Maureen outside, and Mimi obeyed. Once they were both safely out of the room, Collins walked over to Joanne, and put his arms around her. She rested her head under his chin, and closed her eyes. They were suddenly very aware of the whispers from all over the waiting room, mostly from tourists.

"Was that some kind of performance art?"

"Um…does this usually happen in New York?"

"I think I dated that girl!" Joanne scoffed under her breath at that one.

"She was _Mark's_ friend!" Was not a whisper, but rather, an incredulous shout from Mark's mother. Joanne felt Collins' chest begin to shake with silent laughter, and against her wishes, she felt herself begin to smile. She allowed Collins to lead her over to a seat, and collapsed in it, gratefully. Collins took the empty chair next to her, and crossed his legs. He noticed an obviously out-of-town couple sitting one seat over from him, staring at him with unabashed curiosity. He smiled, and leaned over to them.

"Hi, I'm Tom Collins. I'm gay," he shot a look at the husband, "And you're cute!" Joanne, who had been watching the display with interest, had to stuff her fist in her mouth to keep from breaking out into raucous laughter at the look of horror on the man's face.

"I'm—I'm—I'm," The man stuttered, horrified. "I'm a Republican!" And with that he grabbed his wife's hand and led her hastily out of the room, muttering, "No painkillers are worth this…"

Collins sighed, and leaned back in his seat. He offered a handkerchief to Joanne, who accepted it gratefully, and used it to dab at her runny mascara. He watched her, solemnly.

"Are you alright?" He inquired, gently. She laughed bitterly, and shook her head.

"No." She replied, bluntly. "I should have known. I mean, I talked to him! I never thought," She stopped, forcing back tears. "I never thought he's do this." She finished, hoarsely. Collins chuckled, more bitter than good-humored and rested his head on his hand.

"I didn't either." He offered. "None of us could have known. In the end, it was Mark's decision. We can only hope we'll get an explanation at some point." Joanne shook her head, and frowned.

"We'd _better_ get an explanation." She said. They lapsed into companionable silence, watching the minutes tick by, slowly.

**A/N**: This one's up fast to make up for how long it took for chapter nine to upload. Next chapter, Maureen and Mimi have a discussion in the hallway that they were banished to by the omniscient Collins! Prose In My Pocket—Matt Caplan was actually who I was thinking of. Anthony Rapp plays Mark as protective, and angry. Matt Caplan's lines have a little more avoidant! Mark feel to them. In particular, the difference in the "so do you!" line in "What you Own" really struck me. **the-fraulein**—My most faithful reviewer. Much "propz" and thanks. MandiMooShoe—Glad you found it funny! 

**Harper's Pixie**—I was pretty happy Mark survived too. He's so resilient.

BwayDiva—Yeah, no fatalities in the story…yet. I don't think Mark would have been very pleased if Roger had killed one of his parents. That might have been a joy kill, eh? 


	11. Damned Spot

Still Life

Chapter Ten

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, nor any of the characters contained therein. The song "Hangin' Tough" belongs to New Kids on the Block.

Roger carefully made his way over to a seat by the bed. He sat down, slowly; content to look anywhere but at Mark. Mark, noticing this, cast his eyes downward, and began fiddling with a loose thread on his blanket. 

"Hey" He said again, softly.

"Hey." Roger echoed. He finally glanced at Mark, and took in his drawn, pale appearance. "Mark, you look like shit." He said, bluntly. Mark stared at him, incredulously.

"I almost _died_ and all you can say is that I look like shit?" All of a sudden, his forehead creased and he began chuckling. "Screw you, Roger!" he laughed, and flipped him off. Roger grinned back, happily.

"Oooh, Mark, your mother's out in the waiting room, I don't think she'd like to hear her little Marky use that kind of language." He teased. Mark shot a playful glare at him, and attempted to arrange his features into an intimidating expression. Roger burst out laughing at his pitiful attempt. "I'm sorry, Mark, but you're about as intimidating as _Marky Mark_." Mark was indignant.

"Did you just compare me to Marky Mark?" He sputtered. Roger smiled, gleefully.

"Hangin tough! Hanging tough!" At Mark's annoyed expression, Roger fought to contain a grin. "Are _you_ tough enough?" He inquired, with a raised eyebrow. Mark was unable to retain his stern mask, and dissolved into a fit of laughter, and was quickly joined by Roger. Roger smiled to himself, as he watched Mark laugh. _This is how it should be_, he thought, _this is how it makes sense_. He watched Mark wipe tears of laughter from his eyes, and was content to forget everything, why Mark was here, why _he_ was here, the drugs, the ride to the hospital, their fight, _everything_. His illusion was shattered when a nurse came in to take Mark's blood. With a brusque "hello", she yanked up the sleeve of his hospital gown, displaying the recent track marks, ugly and distinctive against his pale skin. Roger lost it. He stood up quickly, knocking over his chair, and backed away slowly, his eyes not leaving Mark's. Mark was watching him leave, silently, and Roger was desperate. _Beg me to stay…make me understand…give me an excuse…_He thought, trying to communicate this to Mark. Mark watched him reach the door, and just as he turned to leave, shoulders slumped in defeat, he called out:

"I'm sorry." Roger froze. "I'm sorry." He said, louder. Roger began to cry, disbelievingly. He began to walk faster down the hallway, hearing Mark's shouted apologies following him. He walked faster and faster, until he was almost running. He reached the waiting room quickly, and wiped the tears fro his eyes, furiously. He opened the door and walked into the sterile, white-walled room. He met Mimi's concerned gaze, and shrugged his shoulders, helplessly, well aware of his red-rimmed eyes. He stood there, not knowing what to do, and began worrying a frayed thread coming loose from the leg of his jeans, feeling tears building up in his eyes again. He desperately tried to stop them, feeling the lump in his throat build, until it was almost unbearable. He imagined a fire inside him, roaring up as it ate all of his emotions. It seemed to work, and he swallowed, painfully. Mimi approached him, and slipped her small hand into his larger one.

"Hey." He said gruffly. She smiled, wearily, up at him, and pulled him into a hug. He closed his eyes and inhaled her scent, content to feel warm and secure in her arms. He allowed her to lead him to a seat, and her sank into it, numbly. He stared at the one section of wall not adorned with tasteless artwork, and felt his eyes unfocus. He sat back, almost in a trance, and lost himself in memories of Mark. Mimi looked at him, worriedly, but Collins smiled at her, gently.

"It's a phase of grief." He explained, calmly. "Different people cope in different ways." Mimi nodded her understanding, too tired to speak, and rested her head against his shoulder, feeling herself fall asleep. Two people shouting jolted her awake, and She groaned, frustrated. She looked over in the direction the yelling was coming from, and saw Joanne and Maureen, locked in combat. A frazzled nurse came over, and tried to part them.

"Excuse me, ladies, but you have to keep it down, or you'll have to leave the hospital." Joanne angrily exhaled, and turned to face the timid woman.

"What do you _mean_ 'or we'll have to leave the hospital?" She yelled. "It's a hospital, for God's sake! What if I was sick? I should sue you for negligence right now!" As Joanne went off on a rant about medical care, to the distress of the young employee, Roger felt the need to interject.

"Joanne, nobody _cares_!" He exclaimed, exasperated. "Would you just shut up already?" He yelled. Joanne began bickering with him, with Collins trying to mediate between them, while Maureen and Mimi looked on with interest. The door from the nurse's station slammed open, and a very irritated head nurse stormed out.

"That is _enough_!" She screamed, and all parties fell silent, looking guilty. "You, you, you, you, and _you_," She said, pointing at all of them in turn, with a special glare at Roger, "out of my hospital, _now_." Mimi was indignant.

"Why?" She exclaimed, upset at the injustice. The nurse heaved a great sigh, whatever patience she had left was wearing away, quickly.

"You, because you've been causing a disruption ever since you got here," She said, pointing at Roger. "You, because you caused two patrons to leave, and you were yelling, in a _hospital waiting room_." Was for Collins. "You, because you were having a very loud domestic squabble with your partner, and threatening to sue the hospital." Joanne looked sheepish. "You, because your antics are disturbing all the occupants of this room, and probably the one next to us, as well" Maureen looked unabashed. The nurse rested her eyes on Mimi. "You…because you're the first one's girlfriend." She said, pointing to Roger, who looked more than a little ashamed.

"Um…okay." Said Mimi, timidly, and stood up to leave. Maureen sidled over to the nurse, and placed a hand on her arm.

"You know," She began, "I've always…admired people who work in the medical profession." Joanne's eyes bugged out of her head. The nurse glared so furiously at Maureen, Mimi was surprised Maureen didn't drop dead on the spot. She yanked her hand out of Maureen's grasp, and drew out a small radio from her pocket.

"This is the head nurse from station 115, I need security to remove five people from the premises." Mimi closed her eyes, and felt her cheeks burn red. Three officers arrived to escort them from the premises, but before they left, Collins called back to the nurse,

"And your name was…Ratched, was it?" He smiled, sweetly, as the nurse let out an enraged growl.

**Koishii-Kitsune-Akira**—I'm glad too. I'm rather fond of old Mark…I imagine he'll be with us for a while…unless I feel particularly vindictive one day…

**Prose in my Pocket**—Yes, Matt Caplan has a fantastic interpretation of Mark, doesn't he? The first time I saw RENT, it was with his understudy, Jay Wilkinson. That was the night I bought my poster signed by all the cast…BC/EFA rocks!

**the-fraulein**—Heh, I imagine it would be quite a good insult. I'm actually living in a suburb now…a very safe, picturesque, _boring_ suburb.

**SparkilyDragnStikers**—This chapter is a little longer, I think. Around 1,000 words, maybe?

**Harper's Pixie**—If you can find it, it'll be well-worth getting. Thanks for the Maureen comments, I try to make the characters believable, not fanfiction stereotypes.

All right, you guys were going to get a chapter of Maureen and Mimi in the hallway before this…but then I realized I had no idea how they would interact, so you got this one, instead.

Feedback welcomed, please review.


	12. Arise fair sun

Still Life

Chapter Eleven

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, nor any of the characters contained therein.

Roger strummed his guitar, frustrated. He hit another wrong note, and threw it angrily down on the dilapidated sofa. He stood up and stalked angrily to the kitchen, wrenching open cupboards and scowling fiercely.

"Why is there never any food in here!" He yelled, slamming the cupboard door shut. Mimi narrowed here eyes at him.

"Because you didn't buy any, Roger." She said, hands on her hips. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out.

"Fine, whatever." He said, and walked to the door, opening it, and almost tearing it off its worn hinges. He grabbed his sweater and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Mimi sighed and sat down, placing her hands over her eyes. She absent-mindedly stirred the tea in front of her, trying not to focus on her blinding headache. She heard a knock at the door, and jerked her head up.

"Who is it?" She called out, wearily, and rose to answer the door. She pulled it open, and found a despondent Roger on the other side, his green pullover soaked through. He ran his hand through his hair, blonde spikes mussed and standing on end, water running down his face. He smiled, and looked at her, ruefully.

"It was raining out," He said, softly. He looked down at wet jeans. "I got wet." He looked at her, hesitating, and she smiled, and hugged him. He held her close and breathed in the scent of her hair. He felt his eyes begin to water, and instinctively stiffened. Mimi felt him pull away, and dropped her arms to her sides.

"What's wrong?" She asked him, gently. Roger looked down at her, and stroked her hair. He smiled, wobbly, and shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know." He confessed, as his eyes got brighter with unshed tears. "I don't know." He said again, softer. He stroked her cheek, and smiled again. "I love you." He whispered, softly. "I don't know what's wrong with me…I haven't felt this strange since…" He stopped abruptly. Mimi stared at him, bracing herself.

"Since what, Roger?" She asked, careful to keep her tone neutral. He refused to meet her eyes.

"Since April died." He finished, bluntly. She had been expecting it, but it still hurt.

"You feel like you lost him." She told him. "You need to see him again." Roger looked away, fighting to maintain his composure.

"It's so hard." He said, voice thick. She squeezed his hand, sympathetically.

"No day but today." She said, and leaned into his side. He put his arm around her, and they sat together.

Joanne sat in her car, outside the hospital. She curled her hands around the steering wheel, and breathed deeply. Her hands began to shake, and her face crumpled. She began to cry, and leaned forward, placing her head on the steering wheel. Her shoulders shook with grief. Maureen had taken the subway home, and there was no one to comfort her. She heard a knock on her window, and looked up to see a familiar blonde-haired cameraman, complete with striped scarf. She rolled down the window. He grinned.

"Mind if I ride with you?" He asked. He handed her a tissue, which she accepted gratefully, dabbing at her tears.

"Not at all." She smiled back, and he got in the car. He grinned playfully at her, and she grinned back, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and they pulled out of the parking lot.

**A/N:** Ooooh, symbolism! Is it friendship…OR IS IT MORE? Or am I just in a really weird mood and trying to trick you all? Only time will tell. Well…time and your feedback, possibly. That's how I like to leave things until I'm sure of the direction I'm going to take—tantalizingly ambiguous! Actually, now that I'm looking back at this, I just remembered that Joanne is most definitely a lesbian, so there's no chance of Mark/Joanne. Heh, funny how some things escape you late at night. Sorry! They would make a good couple though, wouldn't they? Well, if either Mark got a sex-change or Joanne suddenly became straight or bisexual. sigh If only, if only…

Koishii-Kitsune-Akira: I hope you can imagine it! It's sort of a shtick-y thing, but I tried to keep it semi-realistic. Oh, and by the way—is the "Akira" in your name related to Akira Kurosawa, the Japanese filmmaker? Lauren: I was on a school trip when I first saw RENT. Blew all of my money on merchandise. Ridiculously-overpriced merchandise, none the less! Thanks for the comments on Collins, he's a sweetie and fun to write. He's over-looked so often that it's fun to play with his sense of humor and give him some material. He really writes himself, you know. ;) 

**Harper's Pixie:** Heh, Nurse Ratched is the name of the nurse from hell in the play/book One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. This Nurse Ratched didn't order any superfluous lobotomies for anyone, but she does have a heart of coal, doesn't she?

**Dauthi:** Bonny, you managed to work through the whole story pretty fast, you sneaky devil, you. Muchos propos for the reviews. Oh, and I heart Roger just because as well. He's just so heartable!

As usual, thanks for the reviews, for reading, and hopefully you'll review again! I always appreciate it when you do!


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